Yellowing
by RobinRocks
Summary: UKUS AU take on the 'Bluebeard' story with a vampire twist. Dr Francis Bonnefoy and Inspector Ludwig Beilschmidt determine to put a stop to the murders which occur at Lord Kirkland's annual Halloween Ball while Alfred struggles to look after his increasingly ill employer and lover. All of their paths are on a bloody collision course. Part of Wicked Wednesdays.
1. one

Hello, hello, everyone! Welcome to the first installment of **Wicked Wednesdays**, my weekly Halloween countdown for October 2012! :3 This story will, in fact, be in two parts, the second half being posted either tomorrow or Friday, simply because it ended up getting terribly long and because the plot is a little bit... ah, convoluted, ahahaha, I felt like it would be a lot to take in all at once.

So this, _Yellowing_, the first story in the countdown, is a vague Victorian-era(ish) AU with vampires in it. Straight-up Halloween cliche ahoy - except I hope it won't be _too_ cliche, haha.

It takes much of its inspiration from the _Bluebeard_ fairytale/folktale and the title contains a blatant reference to _The Yellow Wallpaper_ and a less blatant reference to _The Picture of Dorian Gray._

Yellowing

**[1/2]**

"It is good of you to come, Monsieur Beilschmidt," Dr Francis Bonnefoy insisted graciously, leaning across the desk. "On such short notice, too. I cannot thank you enough."

"It is nothing," Ludwig Beilschmidt replied with a nod of his head. "Although, if you please, doctor, it is _Inspector_."

"Of course, of course. I meant no disrespect." Francis leaned back in his chair again, his stiff-laced cravat rustling. "In fact, sir, you have nothing but my _utmost _respect, hence my sudden invitation."

Ludwig shifted in his seat; he was plainly dressed in comparison to Francis, who - as mayor to his small but well-to-do town - was regaled in an elaborate manner, commanding the finest of silks and velvets to his person.

"You were cryptic in your letter, sir," Ludwig admitted. "I do hope you have not sought to enlist my services by mistake."

Francis shook his head.

"That will not be an issue," he said, lacing his fingers together. "I have been investigating on my own and I am quite convinced that the resolution of this problem will require an individual possessing your unique skills."

Ludwig gave another grave nod.

"You are certain, then, that you have a vampire in your midst?"

"That is what the evidence seems to amount to." Francis lowered his voice, casting his eyes to the window for a brief moment. "The beast in question goes by Lord Arthur Kirkland, a long-time resident in the mansion beyond the outskirts of town. He has taken a great many wives, all of whom have disappeared without a trace. He does not leave the house and does not permit visitors but for one engagement per year: tomorrow evening's Halloween Ball, to which everyone far and wide is invited. People have been known to vanish at these balls, I must add."

Ludwig did not look entirely convinced; but he nodded in understanding and folded his arms.

"You say he does not leave the house?" he repeated. "Then he has servants to run errands for him, I assume."

"Indeed - the usual stock, a few housemaids, a cook, a kitchen-maid, a groom…" Francis frowned. "And then, of course, there is the boy."

"Boy?"

"One might call him the butler," Francis said uneasily, "for certainly he is not a nobleman and seems to earn his keep; but nonetheless he is treated with a great fondness by Kirkland and is dressed very finely. He must be nearing at least eighteen by now; and has been with Kirkland since he was a very small boy." Francis straightened here and gave a haughty sniff. "Of course, he is also a hunchbacked wretch. Perhaps Kirkland merely gets some depraved pleasure out of watching him set to task."

Ludwig coughed.

"I am afraid I cannot make any judgements based on your words, all the same," he said gravely. "I must meet this Lord Kirkland myself in order to determine his nature." He locked his ice-blue eyes on Francis'. "…I do not suppose you might commandeer such an arrangement?"

Francis grinned, smoothing his hair.

"I may have been cryptic with my invitation to you, Inspector," he said, "but my timing was precise. Tomorrow evening is Halloween and you will be accompanying me to Lord Kirkland's ball."

Ludwig cracked a very small smile in reply.

"I shall sharpen my stake."

* * *

Alfred was making motions to get out of the grand bed, pushing at the covers, when Arthur reached an arm over his waist and pulled him back.

"I fancy it's too early for that," Arthur whispered in his ear. "Stay a while longer."

Alfred didn't put up much of a fight, nestling back against him with a sleepy smile. Arthur grinned against the curve of his neck and his hand crawled, fingertips encircling Alfred's navel before sliding up over his chest and to his throat; and from here a sweep over the collarbone and firmly, open-palmed, over the hard bulge of twisted bone at his right shoulder. Alfred rolled over and cuddled against him, putting a stop to his wandering.

"I must be up soon," he said in a low voice. "There is much to do today if we are to be ready this evening."

"Ah, yes, that bloody ball of mine," Arthur replied serenely. "People _do _enjoy themselves at it, don't they?" He walked his fingers up Alfred's spine, making him squirm. "…That is, the ones who leave in one piece."

"Oh!" Alfred bolted upright. "That reminds me, I must bring in the pumpkins if they are to be carved!"

Arthur withdrew, yawning.

"Oh, very well," he grumbled, "if you simply _must _away at this ghastly hour."

"Shall I bring your breakfast up?" Alfred asked, fetching his livery and beginning to dress before the fire.

"That would be most kind," Arthur said, resting his cheek on one hand to watch the altogether very fine spectacle of Alfred dressing. "I might sleep the morning - I shan't want to be tired tonight and I'm not as young as I used to be."

"You are too hard on yourself." In full splendour, Alfred came to the bedside and sat down to reach for the comb on his cabinet. His disfigurement was small and seemed to matter nothing when one considered that he had the face of an angel - but nonetheless the anomaly in his spine made it more difficult for him to use his right arm.

"Allow me." Arthur took the comb from his hand and pulled himself closer, sitting up to drag the bone teeth through Alfred's corn-gold hair.

"I can do it myself," Alfred grumbled; though he allowed him to do it, polishing his glasses instead.

"I know," Arthur sighed, "but it is a small pleasure of mine. _My _hair is only good for oiling back these days."

Alfred turned to him and touched his face with a familiar tenderness.

"Do not be melancholy," he said with a smile. "I will bring your breakfast hence and then you may sleep; and this evening you will be in the highest of spirits."

"You are too good to me," Arthur muttered.

"I am, rather," Alfred replied with a grin, pulling back. He started away; but Arthur caught his sleeve, holding him until he turned in puzzlement.

"Before that, however," Arthur said, "would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of water?" He kneaded at his forehead. "I still have the taste of blood in my mouth from last night."

* * *

Along the balcony jutting forth above the grand entrance hall hung a great many paintings; and among these was a large splendid one of Lord Arthur Kirkland in the flesh of his youth, a handsome young man in his scarlet dress uniform with soft flaxen hair and piercing green eyes. Though one could still see the decaying remains of this most Romantic figure in Arthur now, Alfred had never known him to look exactly as this portrait showed. He was no older than twenty-five, forever young between brushstrokes and canvas; but he had been in his forties when Alfred had first met him. Now at fifty-four, he was thirty-six years Alfred's elder and had that ethereal echo about him, the one that suggested he had once been in possession of good looks but had long since lost his grip on them.

He was still blonde but the way his hair fell wildly around his face in the painting no longer suited him, hence he wore it combed back in a manner which served to make his thick eyebrows even more severe. He was not the slender creature of this caricature, either, having poured on weight like water in the last decade. Indeed, he over-ate in a manner much akin to panic and drank far too much, too; though perhaps at least half of it came down to mere boredom, since it was true that he had little to occupy his days with. He walked with a cane, a handsome birch whittling with a carved ivory handle, a discharge gift from the army: nothing to do with age, actually, and all to do with some rotten injury or other from serving overseas. He slept a lot and hadn't, to Alfred's knowledge, had a clean bill of health in years.

However, he had a pleasant enough temper, seeming to care about very little; and he had always been very good to Alfred, whom he had found huddled and begging on the streets some twelve years ago (shortly before he shut himself up in his house). Nobody, in fact, had ever been as kind to Alfred as Arthur had; children like him, ones with twisted backs and the like, weren't even considered fit enough for the workhouse and thrown out into the street to die. It was the first time anyone had ever looked twice at him in anything other than revulsion.

It wasn't a free ride, of course. He had been bathed, fed, given new clothes and a room of his own and more or less installed as Arthur's aide, a role which he had been performing ever since. He ran intimate errands for him, sorted his mail, looked after his clothes, brought him tea and generally just kept him company; Arthur paid him small wage, enough to buy little personal things if he desired, in addition to free room and board in return for his service and his silence.

Serving as Arthur's bedmate was newer, occasioning on the eve of Alfred's seventeenth birthday. As Arthur was the only person who had ever shown him such kindness - and this being a new, gentle demand from him - Alfred had not resisted him, growing to enjoy it on subsequent occasions. He had seen the way the young girls in the town looked at him when he was on his errands; their bright smiles at his face turned to side-eyed sighs of disgust when they saw his back and the strange, lopsided posture it gave him. It was clear to him that they would never find him attractive, nobody would, that wasn't the way of their world; but _Arthur_, the man who had saved him, did. Arthur thought he was beautiful, hunch and all.

They were well-matched, locked up together in their old house, far away from the rest of the world.

(Ah, of course, there were the wives; but none of them lasted very long at all.)

* * *

"There you are." Arthur's cane tapped impatiently behind Alfred, who sat on the back steps gutting a plump amber-skinned pumpkin. "…I expect you lost track of the time?"

"Oh!" Alfred tipped his head back to look up at him, his blue eyes wide. "I was not sure when you would rise, I confess."

"It's two o' clock," Arthur said archly; meaningfully. "_Tea_-time."

"Sorry," Alfred said guiltily, putting the pumpkin aside. "I got carried away doing these pumpkins for the lanterns. Please, do retire to the drawing room and I shall be right up with the tray!"

"Oh, no matter," Arthur sighed, waving his hand at him. "I slept until midday, anyway - I suppose I can bear to push it back an hour." He nodded to the hoard of hollowed-out pumpkins as he manoeuvred his bulk in a careful manner to sit next to Alfred. "I see your time has not been ill-spent, either way."

Alfred grinned cheerfully, holding one up.

"I thought I might carve amusing faces in them," he said. "What do you think?"

"That might be witty," Arthur agreed calmly, lighting himself a little thin cigar. The puff of sweet smoke capered away on the crisp October air and Arthur gave a contented sigh before he started coughing violently, doubling over.

Alfred patted gently at his back. He did not look at him.

"Shall I fetch you some water?" he asked quietly.

Easing, Arthur waved his hand at him again before taking his cigar back to his lips for another defiant drag.

"No, I'm quite alright," he rasped, knocking his fist against his chest. "Just catches up to me, you know…" He took a breath and dissolved into violent hacking once more, dropping his cigar as blood spattered over his clamped fingers. Alfred bent and picked up the smouldering smoke, looking at Arthur over his glasses.

"Excuse me," Arthur said weakly, hurriedly pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his hand clean. "I-I should go back inside."

"Of course." Alfred took his elbow and helped him to get up. "Do you need assistance?" He bit at his bottom lip. "You seem… awfully weak-"

"I'll be alright, you have my word." Arthur shot him a wan smile before hoisting himself back up the step with his cane. He drifted indoors again, slow and deliberate, and Alfred could hear him coughing once more from beyond the parlour.

Leaning back against the stonework, Alfred exhaled and looked at the cigar burning away between his fingers; he did not have a habit of smoking but he finished it, the acrid taste blazing unpleasantly in the back of his throat. He looked out over the grounds, the sun beginning to slink west and gild everything with an amber blush. There was a fresh, crisp earthiness to the air, one that would no doubt carry well into the night. His gaze slid to his pumpkins, piled high like battle-won heads, their innards slopping up the sides of the basin on the bottom step. How splendid they would look tonight in in glowing rank.

He tossed the remains of the cigar into the guts bucket and sat down again, reaching for his pumpkin. It was hard work and he was better with his left arm than his right, clamping them between elbow and ribcage and making a clean job of a messy one as he scooped out their flesh one by one and gave them their faces.

Suddenly it seemed like terribly lonely work.

* * *

The jack-o-lanterns were set out in neat rows on the kitchen table downstairs, awaiting their candles; cleaned up, Alfred took the tray up to the bright drawing room, where Arthur liked to work because there was a large couch for him to rest on if he needed it. This was always the first place he looked for him.

Lo and behold, the couch was fulfilling its purpose, Arthur fast asleep in the sun. Alfred quietly closed the door behind him and brought the tray to the coffee table, setting it down. If nothing else, the aroma of tea usually roused him.

Alfred knelt on the carpet beside him, looking down the length of his body. He lay in a twisted manner, making him bulge rather more in places than he might have otherwise, his buttons straining and his silk waistcoat pulled taut over the mounds of flesh beneath. This, of course, was Arthur's hard-won victory, his constant battle to stay as overweight as he possibly could; and Alfred had never known him to be the thin, fit soldier of his most noble portrait, anyway.

His breath came in a rasp, however, and his hair was starting to lose its slick, feathering in little loose fronds around his face. Alfred bent over him, kissing his temple, and then brushed the back of his hand over his rounded cheek, down in a barely-there sweep to his double-chin and the crook of his neck. Arthur stirred, his brow scrunching in irritation.

"Hello," Alfred greeted him gently, smiling as he opened his eyes.

"Good afternoon," Arthur murmured, shielding his eyes from the late honeyed sun. He shifted, pushing Alfred's hand away. "Goodness, I've slept most of the day." He shot Alfred a watery smile. "You'll have to forgive me, I haven't much energy today."

"It's alright, save your strength for this evening." Alfred settled comfortably on his knees next to the coffee table and pulled the tray closer. "I made tea and sandwiches."

"That sounds wonderful," Arthur said absently, looking up at the ceiling. "…Though, truth be told, I'm not all that hungry."

"You should eat something all the same," Alfred pressed, pouring out the tea. And then, when he got no response, more urgently: "Arthur. _Please_."

"Oh, come off it," Arthur sighed, turning his face to grin weakly at him. "I'm hardly wasting away."

Alfred said nothing to this, only slammed Arthur's teacup down before him and followed with a plate of small, triangular cucumber sandwiches.

"You only ate half of your breakfast," he said coolly. "Now sit up."

"Alfred, you _are _lucky I'm much too fond of you to kick you down the stairs," Arthur grumbled, taking a grip on the back of the couch to haul himself upright; this proved to be too much for one of his gilt buttons, which jumped ship and bounced loudly across the floorboards. "…Case in point," he went on flatly, looking down at the gaping gap in his waistcoat.

"I'll sew it back on for you," Alfred said nonchalantly, reaching for the button and pocketing it. He stirred his own tea, watching Arthur through his eyelashes. "Will you eat?"

Arthur sighed, taking up his teacup and setting the saucer carefully on his lap.

"I'm so very tired of destroying my body," he said quietly. "All of my joints ache from the weight…" He coughed a little bit into his fist. "It doesn't help that I have hardly any energy, besides."

"Perhaps we shall have to look into acquiring you a wheelchair," Alfred said airily. "I don't mind pushing you around."

"Perhaps," Arthur echoed sadly. "…My, you _are _full of solutions today, aren't you?"

"I am at your service."

"Oh, and now we're being formal," Arthur said with a smirk. "Very well."

"Arthur," Alfred sighed, looking at him with a pained expression, "I don't want you to be uncomfortable. Anything I can do to help-"

"I know," Arthur interrupted, looking up at the ceiling rose, "but please don't forget how ill I am, love. It'll make it all the worse in the long run."

Alfred fell quiet, distractedly chasing his lemon wedge around his cup. Arthur sipped at his tea, his eyes closing with relish.

"I was making a few little adjustments to the will before my nap," he went on calmly. "Perhaps you would care to look over it when we are done here?"

Alfred was silent for a moment.

"Alfred?"

"Tomorrow." Alfred cleared his throat apologetically. "Per… perhaps tomorrow. I have much on my mind today."

"Ah." Arthur smiled. "Well, yes, maybe that would be for the best. I suppose I forget that you are also my housekeeper, amongst other things. Much of the preparation for this evening's ball has fallen to you."

"I hope we will be ready," Alfred sighed. He watched Arthur pick up one of the tiny thin sandwiches and turn it this way and that. "…Those are samples, Arthur."

"Oh, for tonight?" Arthur took a tiny bite out of the corner and chewed thoughtfully. "It's very good."

Alfred raised his eyebrows as he finished his tea.

"Did you even _get _any cucumber?"

"I'm sorry, I really haven't much of an appetite," Arthur sighed miserably. "I haven't for a few days now." He took another bite with a bit of effort. "Perhaps I shall feel more like eating tonight."

Alfred set down his teacup and looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearing five o' clock and the ball began at seven.

"I should go upstairs and set out your clothes," he said. "You will need assistance in dressing?"

"I should have thought so, if it doesn't trouble you."

"Not at all." Alfred rose and nodded to him. "I'll be up at around six. If you'll excuse me."

"Of course, love."

Alfred started briskly away, his empty teacup in hand.

"Oh, Alfred!" Arthur called to him suddenly. "Be a lamb - while you're up, can you put the will back in the desk drawer? I shan't be going back to it today. The key is beside the inkwell."

"Of course." Alfred doubled back, heading to the desk; setting the teacup down with a clatter, he snatched up the papers and bundled them back into their manila folder without looking at them, shoving them into the drawer with little ceremony.

"_Gently_, Alfred," Arthur chided him without even looking.

"Sorry." Alfred locked the drawer and came back to the couch. "Here's the key."

"Will you look after it for now?" Arthur asked, looking up at him. "There isn't room for even a speck of _dust _in these pockets of mine. I believe I can feel another button about to go."

"Certainly." Alfred slipped the little key into his own pocket. "Will that be all?"

"Quite."

"Then I shall see you at six for dressing."

"You'd best bring the crowbar, I think."

"I believe we'll manage," Alfred said stiffly.

"Hmm." Arthur looked up at him. "…Alfred, I know it isn't pleasant to talk about but it _is _going to happen. I just want to ensure that everything is prepared."

"I know." Alfred stepped back. "Ex-excuse me, Arthur, I really must be going. I have a lot to attend to."

Arthur said nothing else, only nodded. Alfred hurried from the room, making no pretence about it, not even stopping to retrieve his teacup; he fled along the corridor and burst out onto the balcony, leaning over it to gather his breath in great gasps. There were a few maids in the empty entrance hall below, putting the final touches to the grand Halloween decorations which would greet their guests in two hours time. Their presence made him bite back the sob welling in his chest and instead he drew a single shaky breath, straightening. Arthur's painting loomed over him and he turned towards it, looking up to the towering splendour of the very last of this old bloodline, the strong young soldier immortal by the gift of art.

How he longed for him; he, who had never known Arthur as anything but old and sick, as a man obsessed with gaining weight in a desperate, foolish measure to preserve himself from the tuberculosis killing him as long as he could. Arthur had married, of course; several times, in fact, but they had been a means to an end. He had never had any children. He had never found anyone to be happy with - but for Alfred, it seemed, though he already had tuberculosis by then, having contracted it years before in a military hospital.

Alfred envied and coveted this young Arthur, who had his whole life ahead of him; a life that might have been spent with Alfred had their births not been decades apart. They were lovers, yes, but not the lovers that they might have been, had the circumstances been different. Arthur was the most important thing in the whole world to him, he thrived on his companionship and adored him as his saviour, and soon he would be taken from him. It was clear to anyone just how ill Arthur was becoming and there was nothing, absolutely _nothing_, Alfred could do.

He didn't want to be alone again. A houseful of blood was no substitute for love.

* * *

I know jack-o-lanterns are actually a fairly modern addition to Halloween celebrations but Tim Burton has them in _Sleepy Hollow_ (set in 1799) and if Tim Burton says it's okay then it's okay. :3

Part II soon! Here's to a spooktacular October, everyone!

(Btw, thanks to **Haku** for her encouragement to totally _destroy_ everyone's mental image of Arthur, that hot young collection of droopy islands, by making him old _and_ overweight _and_ terminally ill. Also not forgetting Alfred's Quasimodo look, lolololol.)


	2. two

Yellowing

[2/2]

"You'll already know, of course," Ludwig said, twitching back the carriage curtain, "that most of the myth surrounding vampires is exactly that - mere myth. This folklore business of them being night-dwellers who bite others to turn them to their kin, that is nothing but wives' tales."

Francis nodded, adjusting his sapphire cravat pin.

"As I understand it, they are simply a sub-species of human," he replied. "They are born, not created; they do need to drink blood for sustenance but that is not the limit of their diet and, indeed, they might go for months without it."

Ludwig nodded.

"Precisely. The list of their fallacies is ill-begot, too: crosses, daylight, garlic, wooden stakes, no reflection…" He gave a sigh. "If only it were that easy to spot them."

"But they _are _resilient to most human fatalities," Francis pointed out. "Do they not heal faster than you might wound them?"

"That is true," Ludwig conceded gravely. "There is but one single way of killing them: decapitation."

Francis raised his eyebrows.

"I shall keep that in mind," he said lightly.

There was silence between them for a moment as the carriage rattled its way up the hill to the manor, Ludwig turning his hunting knife this way and that on his lap. Francis reached into his inside pocket and took out the two invitations in their thick envelopes, looking over them.

"That one is true, however," Ludwig said suddenly.

"Hm?"

Ludwig nodded towards the envelopes.

"They must have an invitation to enter private property." He cleared his throat. "And, ah, they may not attack you when your back is turned."

Francis gave a peculiar smile.

"That is because they have honour."

The Kirkland mansion bore up over the crest of the hill, an old gothic creation with spindle towers and arched windows and false battlements, rising like the moon between the gnarled fingers of naked trees; there were a great many other carriages in the large entrance grounds, horses tossing their heads and pawing at the cobblestones as ladies in fine and fanciful dresses stepped down on the arms of well-fashioned gentlemen. The stone steps up to the open doors were lit by way of glowing pumpkins and there was that smell in the air, earthy and sweet, of their burning flesh.

Stepping down from the carriage, Ludwig sheathed his knife and joined Francis, who was primping his appearance in the blackened window.

"One would think you were intending to make a good impression," Ludwig observed shrewdly.

"Ah, this is the first of these famed Halloween balls of Kirkland's I have ever had the pleasure of attending," Francis replied lightly. "I have been mayor for less than a year."

"I see." Ludwig made an impatient gesture to the house. "Well, we are here on business, nonetheless. Shall we proceed?"

"Of course." Francis nodded to him. "Please, lead the way."

This Ludwig did, barely dressed for the occasion in a suit that was neat and smart but hardly decadent; the footman gave him a wary eye but, when Francis presented the invitations, he had no choice but to bow and gesture them inside. They stepped through the wisp of black chiffon draped across the doorway and entered the main hall, all aglitter with the party in full swing. Each of the chandeliers had been hung with scarlet glass, their gaslights turned down very low, and the rest of the room was aglow by the grins of those disembodied pumpkin heads. There was rich food and fine wine and champagne aplenty, with quartet music drifting over the chatter of the crowd; and _what _a crowd, tightly packed in all manner of splendid get-ups, the low flickers of light dancing over jewels and gold and glossed ruffled fabrics.

"There is Kirkland," Francis said in a low voice, nudging Ludwig and nodding upwards to the balcony; Lord Arthur Kirkland stood here, one hand leaning on his cane, his other arm linked with Alfred's for support. He was finely dressed in a black dress coat with luxuriant gold detailing and a scarlet silk sash beneath.

"And is that the boy?" Ludwig replied.

"Yes. They are inseparable."

"I'd rather keep the boy out of it, all the same."

"I shall try to lure him away, then."

Ludwig nodded.

"That will be helpful." He beckoned. "But before we do anything, I would like to take a look around. If Kirkland has truly murdered the vast numbers that you suggest, I daresay there will be evidence of his habit somewhere in this house. Regardless of whether he truly _is _a vampire or not, if your accusations have merit, then he cannot be allowed to continue."

Francis bowed politely to him.

"As you will, Inspector," he conceded. "Please, lead on. I will follow."

* * *

"You are feeling well?" Alfred asked, touching Arthur's arm.

"As well as can be expected. I am very well-rested, at least." Arthur smiled fondly at him. "I daresay you want your dinner."

"Well," Alfred reasoned quietly, "you won't let me touch the walls."

"The walls are your stockpile. You shouldn't need them while I'm still around." Arthur made a quick gesture to the party below with his cane. "Well, then, which one do you want?"

"Have you the strength?"

"I can manage," Arthur said coolly. "Come along, Alfred, make your choice."

Alfred leaned over the balcony, glancing down at the crowd. There were a great many beautiful young women in wonderful dresses, happy indeed with the attention of the handsome young men in abundant attendance.

"She will do," he said after a long moment, pointing to one in a blue gown, her hair piled atop her head with jewels. "Her hair is up."

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"You don't have to make it easy for me, you know."

"I was thinking more for me," Alfred said quickly. "I don't like getting their hair in my mouth."

"Very well." Arthur checked his pocket-watch. "Fetch her to me, tell her I should like to show her my wondrous treasure collection or whatnot."

"Of course."

Alfred gave a little bow and started towards the staircase, keeping the girl in his sights. She was laughing with two young men, a drink in her hand, her attention completely divided between them. Girls never looked at _him _in such a manner, nor laughed with him, only ever _at _him and his tormented spine. He had seen this girl before in the town; she and her sister had thrown small stones at him.

It was alright, though. Arthur always made these injustices right in the end.

* * *

"Do you think, Dr Bonnefoy, that I do not know a vampire when I see one?" Ludwig asked pointedly, glancing at Francis over his shoulder.

Francis raised his eyebrows.

"You think that Kirkland is not one?" he replied lazily.

"I cannot know for sure - I have only seen him at great distance." Ludwig took out his knife and pressed the blade to the wallpaper. "But know this: If you think that I am ignorant to _your _being one, you are mistaken."

"Ah." Francis grinned indulgently. "I should not be surprised. I did notice you have kept me at your back."

"And you think yourself safe in my company?"

Francis shrugged.

"I am not the killing sort," he said. "I much prefer wine to blood." He arched his eyebrows. "And I know of you, Inspector Beilschmidt. Your work ethic is admirable - you discern between the tiers of vampire rank. You only slay the blooded ones, those who have made their first kill and subsequently kill to feed as often as they may like."

"But you _do _drink blood," Ludwig observed. "Your countenance bears the benefits."

Francis preened.

"How kind of you to notice," he said. "Indeed, I fed only two nights ago - but I have subordinates who do the killing for me. I'd rather not give up my humanity - unblooded vampires are much clearer thinkers." He grinned. "That, you see, is why I _have _subordinates. I have a doctorate degree in Philosophy. I am the mayor of this town. Savage vampires who kill have no time for such pursuits."

"You are a very rare sort," Ludwig admitted.

"I am," Francis agreed. "And I should prefer to keep it that way - hence my invitation to you. I'd rather not dirty my hands with Kirkland."

Ludwig gave an uneasy nod.

"If things are as you say, then I have no quarrel with you, doctor. Unblooded vampires are not much different from humans, when all is said and done." His blue eyes narrowed. "However, should I cross paths with your, ah, subordinates, the ones who kill on your behalf, I shall waste no time in slaying them."

"Oh, be my guest," Francis sighed. "There are plenty more where they came from. Blooded vampires are so very common - most cannot withhold their urges, it seems."

"Still," Ludwig replied gruffly, "I should prefer you to stay at my back, doctor."

"Of course, Inspector." Francis sat down, crossing one leg over the other, as Ludwig worked. "…Whatever are you doing?"

"Checking the walls for blood," Ludwig replied, moving his massive knife across a little more and pressing with the heel of his hand on the hilt. "Vampires who kill often will sometimes hoard blood, body parts and even whole corpses in the walls of their dwellings."

"How disgusting," Francis said delicately.

"Indeed." Ludwig's reply was wooden as the blade punched through a hollow bit of wall and a gush of dark blood spurted out over his hand. "Still, it is often a good indicator of how many vampires there are in the house."

The blood kept coming, dribbling in clots out of the narrow slit and down the wallpaper. Francis stiffened in his chair.

"There is a lot of blood," Ludwig observed, wiping his hand on his shirt. "There might be more than one."

"Excuse me," Francis said faintly, rising. "I had better leave the room, Inspector, lest I embarrass myself."

He left unceremoniously, banging the door behind him. Ludwig cleaned off his knife and looked at the wall, still oozing old blood. These walls were full of it, he could tell - enough to last one single vampire for years and years if need be.

Well, Francis _had _said that Kirkland never left the house.

He blotted up the gap and left the room, finding Francis leaning against the wall outside, biting down on his knuckles.

"You are well?" he inquired warily.

Francis swallowed and nodded.

"I have urges," he said in a low voice. "I cannot help them." He looked at Ludwig. "We should find Kirkland and be done with this as soon as we are able."

Ludwig gave a nod.

"You can keep the boy at bay," he said, "and I shall take care of the rest."

* * *

"There you are." Arthur let the girl's body drop, slipping his thin sword back into his cane. "I'm getting too near Death's Door to put on that marriage charade any longer."

"Thank you." Alfred came forward from his seat, brushing past Arthur closely enough to run his fingers over his guardian's palm. "I am really unspeakably hungry."

He dropped to his knees, took the girl by her hair and the front of her dress and lowered his mouth to the slit across her white throat. He began to drink, reservedly at first - as was his manner - but then he grew more savage, grasping his meal's poor body more tightly. After a few moments he reached up to take off his glasses, slipping them into the top pocket of his jacket, and there was the familiar cracking of bone as his twisted spine suddenly aligned itself properly, making him seem longer and more dangerous.

After a moment of getting his breath back, Arthur put his cane back to the marble floor and began the laborious walk to the balcony to give Alfred the privacy that he liked whilst eating. The girl was of the usual sort Arthur cornered, the kind who simpered grotesquely because she thought it would get her places; it was clear that she found nothing attractive about Arthur other than the prospect, perhaps, of his vast wealth. She had scrunched her nose in disgust at Alfred's approach, only drawn away from her male companions by his deepest imploring that she had been singled out by Lord Kirkland in lieu of her star-eyed beauty, brightest in that pumpkin-lit room. Her vanity, sadly for her, had been more than her sense.

Pushing aside the curtains, Arthur stepped out onto the balcony, taking in a breath of crisp autumn air. There were a few people out in the ground below, glittering near the steps on which Alfred had carved out his pumpkin lanterns only hours before. He propped his cane against the stone and folded his arms on the balcony's rim. Killing was beginning to take more and more out him; he coughed a bit as he lit up a cigar and took a determined inhale.

Time was beginning to run out. Already he felt that he needed to take to his bed; perhaps he would kill a few more for the walls and be done with it. If Alfred was prudent with his intake - once every few months, as he was used to - he could survive for years without ever having to kill. Arthur didn't want him to have to give up his humanity, not when he was so very young. The world was a cruel and violent place for humans and vampires alike; and Alfred was so sweet-tempered, really, more so than the majority of humans Arthur had ever met. No, Arthur was used to killing - he had been in the army for years. Better yet that he do it and spare Alfred's innocence-

That, and, well, blooded vampires were not known for their care. It wouldn't do for Alfred to go on the nightly sprees so commonly associated with their kind, he would attract unwanted attention from the vigilantes who made in their business to be rid of them for a fee. At only eighteen, equipped with the naivete of that age, it was far better for him to remain unblooded, this Arthur knew. He loved Alfred dearly and wished only for his safety.

If only age and sickness would stand aside, he could be Alfred's guardian for as long as he might need it; but time was against them and this was all he could do to protect him.

Alfred's footsteps were silent but a moment later Arthur felt his breath on the back of his neck; his mouth was sticky with gore, Arthur could feel it as the teenager peppered kisses up the side of his throat. He paused - and here his lips pressed to the flutter of Arthur's jugular.

"Did you enjoy your meal?" Arthur asked in a low voice, putting his hand to Alfred's cheek and gently pushing him away. He tossed away his cigar, letting it smoulder down into the night.

"Very much, thank you," Alfred purred. His arms slipped around Arthur's chest and then downwards, his hands pawing over his curves, cradling his bulk. "...Shall we hence to bed?"

"You know I can't trust you just after you've fed," Arthur whispered; he wrestled Alfred off, turning to face him. "Enough now, love." He wiped at Alfred's bloodied mouth.

Alfred pouted at him. When his spine aligned itself, he was quite a bit taller and his eyes seemed incredibly blue without his glasses; this was the way of vampires, that any imperfections were rightified after a fresh feed, leaving them at their strongest to kill and kill again. Of course, they were also at their most savage - Alfred would be this gorgeous perfected predator for a few days before gracing humanity once more.

"You ought to head back to the party," Arthur insisted. "I will deal with the body."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he sulked. "I simply thought... well, it is so difficult for me to lie on my back normally-"

"None of that." Arthur shooed him away. "Go on, go and pass around a few drinks. If you spot another you might like, you may inform me on my return."

"As you wish."

Arthur gave a nod; then began coughing violently, blood coming up over the back of his hand as he rushed to stay it. Alfred's eyes gleamed with interest.

"No, _no_, Alfred," Arthur choked, stepping back and reaching for his cane; Alfred followed him, taking his hand. "Alfred, it's _diseased_."

"You know I'm not going to get it," Alfred replied calmly; he flashed his tongue over Arthur's hand, licking away the blood. "...It's just that you don't want me getting a _taste_."

He closed in, sweeping close to Arthur again, pressing right up against him, fingers digging cruelly into his soft flesh as his mouth lowered to his neck again-

"Alfred, get out," Arthur breathed, his thin sword singing centimetres from Alfred's throat. "Let's not forget ourselves."

"O-of course." Alfred stepped back, composing himself. He bowed his head. "I... I'm sorry, Arthur-"

"It's alright. Just go, please."

"At once." Alfred nodded to him, flustered at himself, and turned on his heel, scampering lightly away. He closed the door in the room yonder with a bang.

Arthur gave a deep sigh, rubbing at his neck. Alfred's urges - and, indeed, his control - were worsening the older he got, it seemed. Perhaps it was too much to hope, even with the house as his inheritance, that Alfred would be able to remain unblooded forever.

Heading back into the room, slipping his sword away, Arthur paused to look at the girl's drained body. Her skin was a little bit shriveled, indicative of Alfred having drunk most of what she had to offer, and Arthur wondered if it was worth putting her in the wall. Alfred certainly seemed to be done with her. Perhaps it would be better to just hack her up and put her out with the party's waste tomorrow. That was what he did with the new wives whenever Alfred had had his fill - they went out with the rest of the wedding leftovers.

Arthur was still pondering this when the door opened and a tall stranger stood on the threshold; hardly dressed for the occasion, tall, blue eyes, pale blonde hair. He had a rather large hunting knife in a leather sheath at his hip.

"Lord Kirkland," he said in a thick accent, stepping into the room. He looked to the corpse of the girl. "Your surroundings do not do your reputation much credit, sir."

"My reputation?" Arthur replied, straightening.

"That of a vampire." The man looked him up and down. "However, on seeing you in person, I conclude that the reputation is, in fact, mistaken. You are not a vampire, as Dr Bonnefoy suggests."

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"And you, I suppose, are a hunter of their kind?"

"I make a living by it, yes." The man's piercing eyes narrowed. "...There _is _a vampire in this house."

"And what makes you so sure of that?" Arthur asked archly. "For all you know, I am simply a serial killer."

"Oh, yes, there can be no denying that - but you are feeding a vampire with your habit. I just saw your boy servant leave this room. On seeing that you lack the traits of the creatures, I conclude therefore that the child is the vampire, unblooded, and you are his food source." The man gestured around. "The walls, you see. They are full of blood - a common habit of vampires. Needless to say, this mansion holds regular feedings for a great many years."

"I have tuberculosis," Arthur said shortly. "I know not how much longer I have left to live - and I must ensure that Alfred is well cared for. He will inherit the manor, of course, when I die."

"How noble." The man sighed. "Well, I expect you know that I cannot allow this to continue. I shall have to place you under arrest, Lord Kirkland, for the murder of a great many individuals."

"Oh, it's likely hundreds," Arthur said lightly. "This is a very big house."

"Indeed." The man beckoned. "You will accompany me. I do not expect a gentleman of your standing to make a scene."

"Of course not," Arthur agreed calmly, slowly making his way towards him. "That would be embarassing. In fact, you need not even escort me, as such. I will follow."

"Very well." The man turned away and beckoned, starting out of the door as Arthur caught up to him, his cane clacking.

"I see you are well-versed in dealing with vampires," Arthur said, "Mr...?"

"Inspector Ludwig Beilschmidt." Ludwig gave a snort. "Why - because I so readily turn my back on you?"

"Yes." Arthur slammed his sword through Ludwig's chest from behind. "I am a human, you fool - you ought never to turn your back on _any _of us."

* * *

Alfred was weaving his way through the thick crowd, enjoying the musky scent of them all so tightly packed together, listening to the thrum of their blood, when someone seized him by the wrist. He started, whirling, to find that the town's mayor, the handsome Dr Bonnefoy, had been the one to seize upon him.

"I haven't a dance partner," Francis said with a charming smile. "Will you do me the honour?"

"I suppose," Alfred replied; though he wasn't terribly interested, instead scoping for Arthur's return. He was yet determined to persuade him upstairs and into bed, it was really the only thing on his mind right now, his body was flawless and powerful and he wanted to use it - and if not for killing then he wanted sex and he wanted it with Arthur and he wanted it _now_.

"Very good," Francis cooed, taking him into position. "It is an informal waltz, nothing too difficult."

"I shall do my best, sir," Alfred promised vaguely, letting Francis lead him; he was looking over the mayor's shoulder at the balcony, which remained empty. Arthur's portrait, however, was hollow-cheeked and eerie in the flicking candlelight of the pumpkins.

"I do like the pumpkin lanterns," Francis said over the slow swell of the music. "How inspired."

"I made them," Alfred told him blandly.

"You are talented."

"Oh, hardly." They changed direction and Alfred twisted to still watch the balcony.

"Who are you looking for?" Francis asked, smiling at him. "Does my company not please you?"

"I'm watching for Arthur." Alfred paused, seeming to catch himself. "Ah, I-I mean Lord Kirkland, my master."

Francis raised his eyebrows.

"I think it's understandable that you would be on first-name terms with him," he said. "Given that you stand to inherit his title and his mansion when his illness at last kills him."

Alfred finally gave him his full attention, blinking at him in shock.

"H-how... with all due respect, sir, how can you know of such things?" he asked in a low voice. "Arthur has not been terribly public about the whole grim matter."

Francis rolled his eyes.

"I am the mayor, idiot boy," he said coldly. "All wills and testaments - and their edits - pass through my office. Kirkland's will is recent, as is naming you his sole benefactor. He must know that he hasn't got long left."

"Don't." Alfred tried to pull away - but Francis held fast to him.

"But we will come back to that," he hissed savagely. "For now, I would like you to know that I am aware of your being a vampire - albeit a filthy halfbreed one with a twisted back in your unblooded state." He slipped his hand over Alfred's shoulders. "You have just fed, of course. How handsome you are. It _almost _makes up for the fact that you were found in the gutter by Kirkland."

Alfred at last wrenched himself free.

"What do you care?" he bit out. "That is Arthur's business. I was lucky indeed that he benefited me with his kindness."

Francis kneaded at his brow.

"I care," he groaned, "because I will not stand by and see a pauper-bred halfling who needs a human to do his killing for him inherit this house."

Alfred straightened indignantly.

"Arthur can leave his house to whoever he wants," he said.

"But you're his _sole benefactor_," Francis said again. "Meaning: if something were to befall you, the inheritance is null and the house falls to the office of the mayor." He grinned, his teeth flashing. "_Me_."

"And why should you have any want of Arthur's house?" Alfred asked icily, nodding toward Francis' fine clothing. "You are the mayor, you-"

"Oh, that house isn't mine," Francis interrupted airily, waving his comment aside. "When I retire, I shall want a place of my own, one large enough to throw grand parties such as these." His indulgent grin only broadened. "They do make for wonderful feeding grounds, do they not? A vampire might have his pick of meals, one might say."

"Then you are one too," Alfred said guardedly, backing towards the staircase. Francis followed him at a leisurely pace.

"Indeed," he said. "Unblooded, such as yourself - I have never needed to get my own hands dirty. I do feed frequently, however; keeps me looking young." He examined his nails in the flickering light. "It might interest you to know, little one, that I have invited a vampire hunter here tonight."

He looked up and gave a short, cruel little laugh at the horror that flickered across Alfred's face.

"Oh, fear not!" he implored. "He is of the noble sort - he will not lay a hand on an unblooded innocent. Besides, I have sent him on the scent of your employer, whose habits are more monstrous than either yours or mine."

"Arthur is no vampire," Alfred said savagely. "If he were, he would not be as sick as he is!"

"Oh, indeed, Inspector Beilschmidt will discover this soon enough, I expect," Francis agreed airily. "We vampires do not wear countenances as ugly as Lord Kirkland's; his girth, his age, his illness, all will give him away as soon as Beilschmidt looks upon him."

Alfred shook his head in confusion.

"Th-then I do not understand," he said quietly. "Why invite him if you have no need of his services?"

"He is a distraction," Francis said, rolling his eyes. "I need to have you seperate from Kirkland - who is dreadfully ill, it is true, but nonetheless watches over his precious charge like a hawk. And, well, being as monstrously protective as he is, I have no doubt in my mind that he will perceive Beilschmidt to be a threat to you and dispose of him - something that will benefit me after tonight."

"But what do you want from _me_?!" Alfred asked, exasperated. "I'm... I'm not just going to _give _you Arthur's house because you demand it, sir!"

"Oh, indeed, I know that," Francis sighed. "That's why I need you away from the mother hen; for, you see, tonight is the night I at last dirty my hands. I wish I did not have to be so rash but this is likely my last chance to kill you. Kirkland will probably not live another year, hence this is his last Halloween party - and the last time I shall be invited into your midst. I shall kill you, Kirkland will die of his sickness without an heir and I shall get the house by default. It's really simple enough if you have the mind to consider such things, don't you think?"

At this, Alfred's heels came into sudden contact with the bottom step and he overbalanced, tumbling onto his back; he struggled to sit up on the steps, observing Dr Bonnefoy inclining over him in a threatening manner. His handsome face was distorted by an unholy grin.

"I suggest that you run," he whispered to Alfred.

Alfred drew a breath, hesitating, terrified at the length of Francis' teeth, which bared to him with clear intent-

"Or do not, then," Francis went on sweetly, bending, crawling over him; and the music went on and the crowd danced and nobody noticed. "I cannot touch you when your back is turned anyway-"

Alfred kicked him off, knocking him backwards against the banister; and he tore himself to his feet and scrambled up the staircase, desperately looking for a shield or a weapon. He was strong in this state, yes, but Francis was stronger, he could sense it. He would be torn apart.

He ran to the crest at the right hand side of Arthur's portrait, seizing it and pulling it down with a thud. Here, crossed over behind a decorative shield, was a sword and an axe; he gritted his teeth and poured all of his strength into prying the crest apart, feeling the old iron nails pulling and tearing under his exertion. They came apart with a clatter and Alfred fumbled after the sword, holding it aloft as Francis, his mouth bloodied from a less-than-graceful collision, alighted to the balcony. He looked furious.

"I have never killed," he hissed, approaching Alfred, his gold hair slipping loose from its ribbon. "But rest assured that I am well-versed in the method of it."

Alfred swallowed, holding his ground with the sword before him; Francis darted at him, having little care (it seemed) for the blade, and Alfred swung clumsily at him, missing him by a mile. Francis swept up the shield and rolled in the same motion, coming up with an acrobatic grace to slam the metal sheet across Alfred's face, sending him reeling. He tasted blood and lost his grip on the sword as he staggered against the balcony's rail.

"You are different," Francis went on, standing over him. "Even your fresh-fed savagery is watered down." He smashed the shield against him again, knocking him to the floor. "I'm doing you a mercy - you will not last a month without Kirkland to look after you." He kicked Alfred in the ribs. "Halfling unbloodeds usually die anyway, being deformed and weak."

Alfred coughed, winded, and tried to push himself up; Francis bent to take up the sword and then seized Alfred by his hair, dragging him to his feet. He slammed his neck against the balcony, making use of it as a chopping block, and the sword rose aloft.

"Goodbye, little one," Francis crooned, "and thank you so much for your inheritance-"

The sword swung; and clashed loudly in song with similar metal, stopping. A moment later, Francis' grip on Alfred's hair was torn loose and Arthur was between them, his tapered sword locked with the blunt decorative piece from the crest. Francis gave an ugly scowl; but after a short time this became a charming smile and he took back his blade, bowing.

"Lord Kirkland," he said indulgently. "I was just admiring your wonderful house."

"Your companion is dead," Arthur said coldly, "and you are next, Dr Bonnefoy."

Francis laughed, looking Arthur over.

"I don't think you are much of a match for me," he said cheerfully. "You are hardly _him _any longer, hm?" He gestured with his sword to the portrait. "Now _he _I might fear."

"Misplaced terror, I assure you," Arthur said lightly. "He hadn't the penchant for murder that I have developed."

They went to it, swords singing, evenly matched; Arthur hadn't much strength these days but he was he a fierce fighter and well-taught. He couldn't hope to win, of course, unless he cut the creature's head off; but he pushed Francis back away from Alfred, holding him at bay. Hauling himself up on the balcony's rail, Alfred watched them, ashamed that an old man with a terminal illness had had to save him.

He looked around for the axe.

Arthur stumbled suddenly, grabbing at the banister as his lungs seized up; he began coughing, fighting to keep his grasp on his sword, backing away from Francis.

"Oh dear," Francis sighed gleefully, stepping after him. "You _are _ill, aren't you, Kirkland?"

"Y-you stay... where you are!" Arthur commanded breathlessly between spasms of violent hacking. He doubled, his hand clapping to his mouth as a fresh spritz of blood came up.

Francis's disposition changed immediately at the sight of it; his weaving playfulness vanished entirely and he gave an inhuman snarl before tossing aside his sword and simply lunging at Arthur like an animal. Arthur threw up his sword and Francis was only too happy to impale himself on it to get at Arthur's throat and sink his entire jaw into it. He paused, then tore backwards and Arthur went down, wide-eyed, with Francis still latched onto his neck. They landed together in a sprawl of limbs and spreading scarlet, Francis feeding in a frenzied manner and Arthur struggling weakly with him, grasping at his clothing, trying to push him off.

Francis, of course, couldn't resist gloating; he unlatched for a moment and straightened, looking down at Arthur - who was looking past him, actually, somewhere over his shoulder.

"Do me this honour," Francis cooed, bloody-mouthed, taking Arthur's chin and digging into the soft flesh there. "Look at me while I kill you."

Arthur didn't and Francis scowled.

"What are you looking at?!" he demanded, turning to look over his shoulder; this was all Alfred needed, for when Francis' eyes met his, he swung the axe and beheaded him in a single swipe. His head bounced, rolling across the landing, and the vampire's lifeless body swayed and fell to the side. Still holding the axe, splattered with blood, Alfred kicked the corpse aside and looked down at Arthur.

There was no way he would live; his entire throat was torn open and he was fast losing whatever blood Francis hadn't drank. Arthur was looking up at him in utter dismay and horror, his green eyes steadfastly on the axe with which Alfred had committed his first killing. Alfred candidly threw the axe away, sinking to his knees next to Arthur. The smell of blood was overpowering.

"_No_," Arthur gasped, forcing himself to roll onto his side. "Th-the walls... the _walls _are... f-for you, Alfred..."

"Oh, pray do not do that," Alfred said calmly, taking him and pulling him onto his back again. "Please." He lowered himself, cradling Arthur's head; Arthur reached up a shaking hand to push him away, not that Alfred did so.

"I d-didn't want... th-this to happen," Arthur rasped, putting his fingertips to Alfred's cheek. "I wanted... wanted you t-to keep... your humanity..." Tears welled in his eyes and Alfred pressed his palm atop Arthur's trembling one. "W-why, you stupid... stupid b-boy? I shall die anyway... and now you have thrown... thrown away your innocence..."

"Because I love you." Alfred said this rather woodenly; as though he no longer believed it, perhaps. His motives were lost to him, as was his unblooded self. He let Arthur's hand drop. "Let me drink you."

Arthur said nothing to this, only closed his eyes. Clearly he thought he had no choice - and he was probably correct. Alfred knelt over him, gently lifted his head a little more and began to drink what was left. Arthur felt for Alfred's hand and the new-blooded beast was not yet, at least, so unkind as to snatch it away. It was not the deathbed Arthur had been preparing for all these years.

Alfred lay down on the carpet next to him when he was finished and looked up at the painting. It seemed awfully red - he had noticed that some time ago. The blood was beginning to seep through the canvas.

* * *

After the death of Lord Kirkland, the parties stopped for quite a few years. There was disappointment the first year - even though there were always such strange _rumours _surrounding those parties, why, the previous mayor had alledgedly been found beheaded on the balcony at the last one - but over time the memory of them fell out of the events calendar and general conciousness.

And then, suddenly, the invitations appeared once more on every doorstep in town. There was excitement, chatter and speculation as the townspeople regaled themselves in their most fanciful and set off on the eve of Halloween for the mottled old manor atop the hill. The lines of disembodied heads - those of ripe pumpkins set aglow with hundreds of candles - lit the way to the door, where their host welcomed them in, each and every one.

This was the heir, inheritor of the Lord Kirkland name; but this was not the old and overweight specimen of a few years before. This Lord Kirkland was young, tall, straight-backed and very handsome, his shockingly-blue eyes and platinum hair giving him the appearance of some ethereal being fallen from heaven itself.

He had very white teeth and they showed in his smile when he turned and locked the doors behind him.

* * *

First fic of **Wicked Wednesdays** done and dusted! Huzzah! This one was a little bit tragic, though... :C Ironically I was partly inspired to write this because of _Downton Abbey_ - I felt like writing a little bit of servant-master interaction (though there was definitely a lot more between Arthur and Alfred in this than just the master-servant dynamic, we shall say...).

I hope everyone enjoyed this story! I haven't written a vampire story seen the _Teen Titans_ section back in 2006! O.o

Please pop back for Round 2 of Wicked Wednesdays on** 17th October**!

xXx


End file.
